To Be Made Clean
by bracetheace
Summary: Set during 1.3 - John has revealed his limp corrector to Mrs. Hughes and she enlists Anna's help in getting him cleaned up


**A/N:**Watched the limp corrector episode again and couldn't get this idea out of my head. This is my second foray into writing fanfic, so any comments/criticism/etc would be much appreciated. A hearty thanks to my late night buddy for her comments and always impeccable taste.

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John felt a new wave of shame wash over him as he sat down on the small chair in the corner of the room. He didn't know what he'd been thinking, letting Mrs. Hughes talk him into showing her his mangled leg and its metal vice. The woman was kind and gracious, but she promptly insisted on helping to patch him up. After all, she tutted, she couldn't let the Lord's valet walk around dripping like a hunk of bloody meat, what would Mr. Carson say?

John assured the housekeeper that he could clean himself up quite well on his own, but Mrs. Hughes would have none of it. After several more protests, she shot him a withering glare that oozed finality and he knew he best not test her further. She'd ushered him into her sitting room and told him in no uncertain terms to wait there while she fetched what she needed to tend his wounds.

He ran his hands through his hair, anxiety coursing through him and settling heavily in his stomach. It was bad enough that Mrs. Hughes knew about the ridiculous limp corrector, which was a bloody piece of rubbish as it turned out, but now she was going to sit across from him and not only see, but _touch_ the scars he had worked so hard to hide. No. He couldn't have it. It was too much.

He stood abruptly, nearly tipping the chair over, and his knee pulsed vehemently at the sudden movement. He needed an escape route and had just peered around the door into the hall to see if he could flee before Mrs. Hughes returned, when he very nearly got bowled into by Anna, who was stepping into the sitting room.

John took a stumbling step backward, bracing himself on the edge of the desk and cursing as his leg nearly buckled. Anna halted wide-eyed in the doorway, holding a sloshing bowl of liquid.

"My, Mr. Bates, you gave me quite the start!" Anna said, grinning at him suddenly in the way he loved, with just the corners of her lips turned up.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking…" he trailed off as she stepped more fully into the room. He noted now that she had small cloths draped over her left wrist and a bottle in her hand. His stomach began to sink.

"You weren't trying to give Mrs. Hughes the slip, were you?"

"No, certainly not. But I do believe I heard the Lordship's bell ringing, so I best get a move on." John hardly had time to consider the lie before it escaped his lips and he edged ever closer to the door.

Anna set down the bowl in her hand and crossed her arms in front of her as she stood in the doorway, raising her eyebrows as if begging him to challenge her. For someone so small, she suddenly puffed herself out, trying, he assumed, to look authoritative. He found the effect to be rather adorable.

"I ran into Mrs. Hughes in the hall and it seems one of the maids took a tumble. She had to run off and she explained your current predicament and I volunteered to take over for her here." Anna's eyes flashed with an emotion that John couldn't place.

The anxiety that had settled in John's stomach immediately jumped into his chest, jolting his heart and encircling his lungs. He found himself in need of a bit more air. He took a filling breath through his nose and tried to keep his expression neutral.

"As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I have taken care of myself for quite some time, and can certainly continue to do so." He hoped he didn't sound too harsh, but the thought of Anna seeing his leg, his scars, seeing _him, _made his heart clench. He suddenly felt much too warm and was sure his blood had turned sour, as he could nearly feel it curdling beneath his skin.

"Mr. Bates, if you think you're getting out of this room, you are sorely mistaken. Have a seat," Anna told him, gesturing in the direction of the chair he had been in just minutes ago. She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort, yet something about her tone, her features, moved him to the chair before his brain could process the steps he had taken.

"Much better. I'll be as gentle as I can," Anna assured him, good god, she practically _cooed_ it at him. She followed his slow movements to where he sat. She always followed him. She had picked up his gait almost immediately, like no one ever had, and she was always there, his much finer shadow. He never minded, not until this moment.

Anna pulled a stool over and sat down. Her eyes lingered on the limp corrector, which stood in the corner of the room. She turned back to him and a blush rose in her cheeks. "I'm sorry, but it looks like an awful contraption."

He coughed out a small, bitter laugh. "Yes," he said simply, nodding, looking at the metal device. A torturous contraption.

"Well," Anna said, swirling a cloth into the solution in the bowl, and looking up at him, "Shall we?" Her eyes were unwavering, yet he had no idea what she was thinking. His pulse beat hard against his collar and he could feel the stiff fabric growing soggy from the sweat that was now beading around his neck.

John didn't know how to respond to her question. This was really going to happen. Anna was not only going to see the physical reminder of his time at war, but actually touch the thick disfigurements. He knew he was working himself up into quite the state, but couldn't seem to stop the assault. He hardly remembered how to breathe. The room seemed to reduce in size, caving in on them as Anna's hands hovered just over his trousered ankle, unsure of how to proceed.

"Anna, I can certainly take care of this on my own," he spoke, wishing the words hadn't come out in such a whisper. His eyes met hers and her face colored slightly as she shook her head. It marked the first time that she looked unsure of herself since stepping into the room, but she recovered quickly.

"I'm afraid neither of us would hear the end of it from Mrs. Hughes."

He couldn't help but nod in agreement. Mrs. Hughes was as kind a housekeeper as he had come across, but god help those who crossed her, and she would find out. She always did, so John supposed the quicker he moved things along, the quicker it would be over and he could limp away with whatever dignity remained.

"If it's too much, please don't think you must-"

"Mr. Bates, kindly roll up your trousers, I do have other duties to attend to." Her tone was playful. "I grew up in the country with older brothers so I'm sure I have seen far worse."

John sighed and hoped she was right about that. He roughly hitched up his pant leg to just above his knee, not breathing as Anna took in the bloodied mess in front of her. He was bare to her now, in essence, with the mass of flesh that he kept hidden finally out in the open. It would be easier this way, he tried to convince himself, for her to be repulsed. She had been edging ever closer of late, perhaps too close, and this would serve as a reason for her to slowly back away, to walk at a normal pace again and leave him behind. He didn't belong by her side.

The cloth swished in the water and he heard her soft sigh. His eyes focused on a spot along the far wall as he wasn't sure he could stand to look at her, to see the disgust in her eyes, but in an instant, his eyes were on her, as he found that in the ridiculous intimacy of the moment, he couldn't not look at her. At the skin of her cheeks that he imagined was so soft, the one piece of blonde hair that had fallen out of place when he had startled her and finally, those blue eyes. They met his and he didn't see the revulsion that he was so expecting. Instead he saw only softness, empathy. There was no pity in those irises. No loathing. Of course there wasn't, he almost cursed himself, this was Anna. Sweet, sweet Anna, who knew so little of the dark knots in his soul but was now getting a glimpse at his equally knotted body.

The cold wetness on his shin broke him out of his thoughts. He almost hissed as she ran the cloth along the first of his gashes with a gentleness that nearly brought tears to his eyes. He had never known such a tender touch. The raw emotions exploding inside him escaped his body in a prolonged shudder.

"I'm sorry, I'm trying to be gentle," Anna apologized, mistaking his trembling for a surge of pain. But he felt no such surge. He was lost in her. In the sweep of her fingers atop the rag. The water was frigid across his wounds, but his skin was alight with her. Midday sun shown off the metal of the limp correcter from across the room, catching his eye. He would put the damn thing back on and suffer through each day if it meant he could play patient to her tender nursing.

Her hand ran across the back of his calf, patting it dry, and he stifled a moan and tried to keep his head from wobbling uselessly atop his neck. His brains felt gelatinous. He grew frustrated at this temporary insanity. It didn't even feel all that good, not physically, at least. There were continued pinpricks of discomfort as she rubbed at bits of dried blood.

"Does it hurt much?" she asked softly.

"No." The word left his mouth dumbly, but he was glad to be able to speak at all.

"Good." The water in the bowl grew pink from his blood and a fresh bit of shame sparked in him. Once lit, the always-present embers flooded his body anew.

"I'm sorry about all of this, I think that's enough now. You shouldn't have to-" he stopped speaking, his fears silenced by a smile that pierced his heart.

"Nonsense. It's my pleasure to help a friend in need."

He was so bewitched by her that only the steady drip of water trickling down his kneecap alerted him to her presence at the root of the problem.

"Anna," he choked. But she didn't look up, instead biting into her bottom lip. Her hand moved to ghost the cloth over his old wound, touch light as a feather, but still his leg jumped in reflex. His knee was uncharted territory, largely unexplored by human hands. Even he tended to avoid touching it and Vera certainly never had.

John stared as if in a trance. He felt he was watching the scene play out from afar. He held his breath as Anna danced the cloth over the puffy pink landscape of his skin, brushing over scars and soothing his soul in a way in which he could neither comprehend nor ever be grateful enough. He was mighty glad for the rag, though, as he wasn't sure he could have handled the touch of her bare skin. Even through the fabric she was scorching him.

Her tongue stole out of her mouth a bit as she concentrated on the task at hand, and before John could even pull himself together enough to make conversation, she was ringing the cloth out and standing up.

"Well, it doesn't look all that much better I'm afraid." She looked at his leg appraisingly, hands on her hips. John looked down at the mess of skin and noticed it looked significantly less tainted.

"It's infinitely better. Thank you, Anna. You've helped more than you could ever know." He shoved his pant leg down quickly and grabbed for his cane. His head still spun and he didn't want to do or say anything he may regret, _like pulling her into your arms, you bloody bastard_, so after offering to clean up the supplies and being turned down, a quick exit seemed to be for the best. He shuffled to the door but couldn't help turning around to smile softly at her. He was awed by her kindness and wished desperately, as he always did, that there was some way he could repay it. But for now, she seemed happy enough to accept his words of gratitude and he had little else to offer.

Walking slowly down the hall, his mind replayed the scene again and again, as if stuck on a loop. He had left the limp corrector in the room, as Mrs. Hughes had some grand plan for it, and he smiled as he noted that, despite Anna's natural curiosity, she never asked him why he bought the infernal thing in the first place. He could still feel her touch on him. Perhaps she knew.


End file.
